


Getting Soft

by wheresthequeef



Category: Daria (Cartoon)
Genre: Belly Kink, College, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Developing Relationship, F/F, Feeding, POV Second Person, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:01:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29440125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheresthequeef/pseuds/wheresthequeef
Summary: Developments in Daria and Jane's relationship lead to developments elsewhere.I. E.  Daria gets a girlfriend and then gets fat. Eventually, as fuck. Exactly what it says on the tin.
Relationships: Jane Lane/Daria Morgendorffer
Comments: 1
Kudos: 26





	Getting Soft

The last few rays of afternoon sunshine through Daria’s bedroom windows while she sits at her computer and the sky outside turns from blue to lavender. You sit on her bed, aimlessly scribbling in your sketchbook to hide the fact you’ve been staring at the back of her head the entire time. You’re not even looking at the page. Amiable conversation tries to fill the void between you, a void you so painfully wish to fill. Despite now officially being “girlfriends” — “going steady” as a classmate might put it — the dynamics of your relationship haven’t changed much, nor have the boundaries. Daria doesn’t allow you much intimacy.

_Tick, tick_

You watch as her hands move across the chunky, mechanical keyboard with subtle dexterity. She mentions her mother’s law-firm implementing a healthy eating plan to curb insurance costs. You find yourself unconsciously tuning back into the conversation.

_Tick, tick_

“And somehow, I’ve only gained weight,” Daria says, still facing away. Thankfully so, as those words cause a spike in your adrenaline and a flush across your cheeks.  
“Don’t most girls wait until they actually get married to start getting fat?” She muses.

_Tick, tick._

“Hey, you’re not fat. I’m sure it's five pounds at the most.” You say, defensively, your mind scraping for something to keep her content. “You try taking a shit yet?”  
“Try fifteen.”  
“Wow. You must be _really_ constipated then.” You say, snark thinly disguising your pleasant surprise.

Daria huffs. The clicking stops and she turns around, annoyed. The glare of the computer screen on the surface of her glasses obscures her eyes.  
“You’re not taking me seriously, are you?”

“I am. I just wanna know when _Daria Morgendorffer_ of all people started caring so much about her weight.” You keep pushing.

“Since I started gaining it.”

You both pause for a moment.

“You know, you sound just like your sister.” Bingo.

Your manipulations are obvious to anyone but Daria apparently, as she grumbles something before going back to whatever she was doing on her computer. It seems tenser; she puts more pressure on the keys as she types. You’ve seemingly won, for now. Temporarily smoothed over her insecurities about her minor gain. You can’t deny the thought has you excited. You’ve never disclosed your preferences to Daria, nor have you actually tried to shape her into them in any way (At least, not consciously) The reason is quite clear. Pizza dates, popcorn at the movies, ice cream at the boardwalk. More quality time means more food which means more Daria. You guess you should’ve seen this coming earlier, with your nightly phone calls always being punctuated by the cracking of a soda can tab and your weekly fast-food bill constantly climbing.

You cast another glance at her back. You don’t notice anything, not yet. She’s kept it cleverly hidden away, behind baggy jackets and elastic waistbands. Scrolling through a nameless internet forum, the cloud of frustration around her seems to have dissipated. Your sketchbook discarded at your side, you continue to stare vacantly as your mind runs wild. 15 pounds.

Outside, the streetlights come on. Daria eases out of her desk chair and says: “Pizza? I think I can come up with a way to get my parents to pay for my bypass.”

*

The friendly morning sun comes in through the bottom of your heavy curtains, subtly painting your usually dingy bedroom a warm yellow. Specks of dust float through the hazy air. The curves of Daria’s body are outlined by the golden beams, highlighted as she lazily plods around in search of her overnight bag and a change of clothes. The light catches stray bedhead hairs.

She yawns blearily as she bends down to reach her backpack, exposing a band of pale, downy flesh. Her pajamas have grown undeniably tight due to her undeniably chubby body. You can’t dismiss your part in that as you watch her pull her shorts down to expose a bare ass much fleshier than the one from just a month ago. You chuckle quietly to yourself at it, before she turns around to meet your gaze. “Perv,” Daria says, crinkling her nose playfully before stepping into a black pair of panties.

Over the past few months, you’ve both gotten a lot more comfortable. It’s starting to show, starting to add up. Neither of you have discussed Daria’s rising weight since that one Thursday evening, but that doesn’t mean it’s not there. Or that you haven’t been keeping a close eye on it. She still hides it, tries to. Yet you still watch as new roomy clothes grow snug, as her appetite increases along with her waistline. The whole process has been rather satisfying. Watching someone so put-together let you into her life, let go, and fill out.

You shrug your bedsheets off, grimacing momentarily as your bare legs meet the chill morning air. You crawl to her side, yawning, just as she tries to pull on a pair of jeans. Her elbows almost jab your sides as she struggles to do the button. Face red and sweat on her brow, she curses the denim as you soak in the show. Daria gives up with a gasp. Whatever progress she had made is lost as her belly relaxes back into place with a slight jiggle.

“When did this happen?” She says, winded.  
“Beats me.” You reply, your eyes not-so-subtly fixated on her midsection.

Your flippancy and rather obvious ogling give her pause, both to think and to catch her breath. Even if you can’t meet her eyes, you can feel the cogs turning. You swallow in anticipation.

She turns to you and asks, sternly: “Do you think I’m stupid?”  
You choke. “What?”  
“I’m asking you if you think I’m stupid.” Her expression remains solidly unemotive.  
“No, of course not.” You say, urgently and as if that answer is obvious.  
“Then why aren’t you being real with me?”

You almost sputter out an “about what?” but you decide not to insult her. You both let the agonizing silence hang in the air.

“You know...” Daria begins with a sigh, the corners of her vocal intonation softening. “You could’ve just told me.”  
You let her continue, trying to fully gather what she's saying.

“Artists.” Daris sucks her tongue for emphasis. “Ruben, DeviantArt. That one caveman who sculpted the Venus of Willendorf.” She looks away, letting her words register. You sigh in relief.

“So you...don’t mind?” You probe.

“I’m not running away screaming and calling you a freak right now, am I?”  
Your laugh turns into another sigh.  
“I must admit, my lap did feel kind of lonely.” She yawns, absentmindedly scratching part of her exposed belly. “That and I just don’t think I’m ready to give up cooking an entire box of mac and cheese for myself and eating it out of the pot _just_ yet.”

You chuckle warmly at her sleepy, early morning snark, — and out of sheer relief. A hand wanders to the fly that was causing her so much trouble as you resolve to do your girlfriendly duty of helping her get her pants up. In the motion, you both end up standing face-to-face as you struggle to get the button even an inch near the hole. 

"Holy shit." You breathe, it giving you a lot more trouble than you thought possible. "I've been doing my job, huh?"

Daria ignores your remark and says, plainly: "I lost the hair tie I was using." Still standing there solidly, arms by her sides, while you fight with her jeans.   
"Hair tie?"  
"You can pull one through the loop and use it as an extender."  
"Thanks for the fat girl wisdom." You acknowledge as you let the fabric go.   
"Anytime." She gives her belly a quick, self-satisfied rub. 

Without giving it much thought, you dip your head down to kiss her; she reaches up to meet you. Your lips meet and your hand slides down her waist. Daria's arms make their way up your back and behind your neck, pulling you closer and locking you in place. Despite the lack of spit-swapping or fancy tongue techniques, it's surprisingly passionate. A brief "I love you." after what you both silently recognize to be some sort of "milestone" in your relationship, as deviant as it may be. The feel of her belly squishing against you as you mold together quickens your pulse. 

She pulls away first, yawning into her palm. "Actually, it's a tip for pregnant women." She smacks her lips sleepily.   
"Really?"  
"Really."   
You both just share a moment of eye contact for a moment, sharing the same slightly smug smile. 

She yawns again. "You know what? I could _really_ go for some breakfast after that couple's workout."

*

Cars honk at each other on the midnight street down below, weaving in and out of the city traffic in a rush to get home. You're busy sorting away the freshly-bought dishes and silverware, tucking them away in the slightly musty cabinets as gently as you can, for the neighbor's sake. When you finish the job, you slip out of the kitchen, crossing the connected living room. You’re careful as to not trip over the plethora of moving boxes as you pass through. It’s pitiful at the moment; just a couch, a hastily made IKEA bookshelf, and boxes. Lots of boxes. The kitchen is just as bare. But it’s you and Daria’s new home, the official Lane-Morgendorffer residence. Your new college apartment in Boston.

You walk down the small hallway to your new, shared bedroom to find Daria attempting to try on her fresh college sweatshirt. In front of a full-length mirror, she tugs down on the hem of it, trying to tuck it under the soft overhang of her belly. You sneak up behind her, stepping over discarded articles of clothing and various placeless knick-knacks scattered across the aging wooden floor. She gives up as you slip your arms around her middle, your crotch pushed up against her plush ass in a not-decidedly sexual manner.

She sighs, almost contently. “Guess I’m not winning Miss Universe anytime soon.” You see her eyes flick down her body, taking it all in. In the mirror stands a girl easily twice, if not three times, the size of the one that would’ve been reflected just over a year ago. A girl with your arms wrapped around her waist and your chin resting on her cushiony shoulder.

“No, but I do see a promising career as a film critic in your future.” You joke, quietly recognizing the fact your hands can no longer meet each other. Instead, they casually rest on the exposed lower hemisphere of her belly; the part that curves out from her love-handles and dips down to meet the tops of her thighs.

“Come on, I’m not big enough for that,” Daria responds to your teasing, giving a quick and subtle eye roll.

“Yet.” You wink.

“Yet? Do you have some kind of personal vendetta against my knees or something?” She goads, though her tone implies anything but annoyance.

“Hey, I give up plenty in this relationship too.” You say, jokingly feigning offense. “Do you have any idea how loud it is when you shift in bed nowadays?”

A quiet chuckle vibrates in Daria’s throat and a moment of silence settles between the two of you. You take a second to appreciate her new body; the soft, heavy belly currently in your hands. The way her double D-cups warp the letters spelling out “Raft” on her collegiate sweatshirt, how her thick arms filling out the baggy sleeves. The plump ass pressed against the crotch of your jeans and the thighs bigger around than your own waist down below it. The thickening double chin and softening cheeks that makes her signature unemotive expression harder and harder to take seriously. You love it.

Part of your appreciation is what all that new, squishy-soft padding on your girlfriend's body means, what it signifies. It represents growth; both for her, obviously, and your relationship. She’s let you in. She’s gotten soft on you, literally and figuratively. True love does exist, you think, and it's inside the bubble of yellow fluorescence at a no-name diner by the highway late at night, watching her dump tiny plastic pot after tiny plastic pot of sugary creamer into a cup of coffee with a grin and remembering to yourself that there was a time when she told you she could only drink it black.

“You know,” You begin. Your eyes meet in the reflection. “I think the best part of moving out, going to college is that, well, no one knows.”  
“Hm?”  
“This is just _you_ , now.” You suddenly grab her belly from behind and give it a jiggle for emphasis, to which she gently swats your hand away without breaking eye contact.  
“No one here knows you used to look like Kate Moss.” You lower your voice, letting it simmer with vocal fry as you almost whisper in her ear.

“I never-“ Daria starts to interrupt before shaking her head, deciding not to debate you on this. “Go on.”

“No one here suspects anything different.” You continue. “They have no reason to think you haven’t always been this big.”

“Yet.” She says.

You feel yourself grin at what she's implying. “That’s the spirit.” You give her a quick peck on the cheek before your bodies separate.

“Now,” You say, clapping your hands together. “Let's go find our new favorite pizza place.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, feel free to leave comments/critiques.


End file.
